Tides of Odd
by Sad Mudokon
Summary: Epic storyline of a glukkon trapped between the corporate system and the brink of an apocalyptic supernatural force. May be continued.
1. An ill wind comes knocking

Tides of Odd  
  
CHAPTER 1  
  
  
  
the hallway was long, dark and stank of the heady fumes of half refined petroleum as the glukkon slipped down the hallway, grumbling all the while. Grimacing as he entered one of the small pools of hideous orange halogen light that stained the hallway at regular intervals, he raised his hand, grimacing and rubbing at the oily stain of dirt and grease that besmeared the bottom of his glove. Cursing (-disliking shoes for the most part and the resulting effects it had on his hands at times like this-) he trundled on down the hallway in his sparse clothing; a sheer sleeping shift and the immaculate, but now stained, gloves stretched across his large hands allowed his limbs a longer, smoother stride than the jerky struggling he normally had to pull off when fighting through the frumpy clothing of his Glokkstar wear, but they let in the chill of the factory something awful. Grimacing, he bent for a brief moment, tightening his ears to his skull, and flipped the garishly bright peacock hued scarf back around his neck, (the one piece of status he suffered through at this time of night), the tassel slapping his thin shoulder as he straightened to his considerable height once again. He couldn't help grumbling for the ten millionth time about the foregone fashions of his big cheese days, the tastefully designed suits rather than the glitz and sequins of the ball gown nightmares he had to wear now....  
  
"SIR!"  
  
Groaning, the glukkon Mainard turned to glare at the slig striding swiftly down the dark grimy length of the corridor. Mai's eyes were a strange washed out bluish green glow from deep within their overshadowed sockets- pale at this time of night from hours of sleep still to be slept.  
  
The slig tilted his head upwards, letting his eyes focus in the gloom on those of the glukkon, not a little tired himself.... he could barely force them to stay open, their greatest desire to be to slide into slumber once again, and let the world go to hell as far as he cared....  
  
"Sir ya wished there ta be a meeting with tha-" the slig hesitated, ducking his head as he shivered a little at the superstitious nervousness of the moment. "Tha E-Executioner when he got here… he's here…" noting the glukkon's less than peppy response, the slig started whining- "ya wanted me ta wake ya when he got here sir…"  
  
"Yes that will be all"  
  
Nodding, the slig shivered a little, anticipating the thought of slipping back into the soft recesses of his sleep sack once again, and turned, mechanics whirring, to stride down the corridor- a sudden whump of hot air brushed him, pushing him back several inches and teasing the scarf back from the glukkon's neck.  
  
"Um…"  
  
both voices droned out as two sets of glowing eyes turned down the corridor- which suddenly had a much stronger orange glow. The young slig watched, entranced by horror, as a blast of fire suddenly slammed forth from a doorway far down the hall, bathing the wall before it before rushing-  
  
Mainard, his shoulders already pressed hard to the grimy wall of an open doorway, tilted, balanced and, cursing, reached out and spun the slig from before the incoming fireball and into the wall- the slig's wince was overshadowed by the roaring heat as the fire thundered down the hallway, leaving a swath of superheated air that dissipated and died in moments, the fire drinking so much oxygen that it killed itself moments after it had begun…  
  
Shaking soot from his shoulders, the Glokkstar CEO of Dark Seas straightened, and, without a moment's hesitation, began cursing so vehemently that the young slig, wincing from the heat and impact, felt his face redden under the mask…  
  
"I WANNA KNOW WHERE THAT CAME FROM!! I WANNA KNOW WHERE THE SPARK ORIGINATED AND WHAT DAMN FOOL MUDDY SCREWED UP AND LET ODD KNOWS WHAT CATCH FIRE!!"  
  
"That one's easy…" the voice was strange, disturbing, a sickly gentle murmur too low to be heard and yet heard with such crystal clarity, despite wishes to the contrary "third valve- extractor number three… a young mud named…." The slig that wandered into the light seemed to carry a chill about him as he strode forward… larger than normal, though obviously not by any chemical means, the slig was old, older than the twenty odd years his species was clocked at. Gruesomely grizzled and scarred- the hard marks crisscrossing his skin not indeed battle scars but twisted, incomprehensible tattoos burned directly into the old, grayed flesh. "Named…. Danny. Didn't survive. Suuuuch a pity…." The slig's eyes burned- his face, bereft of mask, twisted into a grin as the Executioner lifted a glowing reddish rock in his palm. "Hope you didn't mind that I took a… memento?"  
  
Mai stared down, blinking slowly, at the rock glowing feebly in the slig's hand. A sound, deep in his consciousness flickered, a fluttering moaning- screaming? –Snatching his hand back, the Executioner smiled again and tucked his hands behind his back. Blinking again and shaking his head, Mainard looked down at the slig, trying as best he might- despite the singing and soot stains on his garb, to stare down the slig smiling up at him.  
  
"I DO so hope you haven't been grazing among my employees slig…" staring dangerously at the slig, Mai turned and, in a purposely rude voice, spat in a hard tone- "I'm sure I'll be very interested in whatever the hell you have to say in the morning- till then- rest well… and slig?"  
  
"Hmmm?" the Executioner's pleasant derisive amiable tone grated across his conscious like nails on steel.  
  
"stay in your Odd damned room!!" 


	2. The demon's demon

CHAPTER 2  
  
  
  
how long had it been....? A twisting yawn stretched the Executioners tentacles, spreading till the tendons bunched and rippled under the rough, yellowish skin. the scar-like tattoos ringing the upper parts of his tentacles stretched painfully, tugging at his face as he wilted in his chair, his eyes dark red and sullen. Hands hanging over the armrests in weary defeat, he paused.... glancing around the room in a small, furtive gesture, he surveyed his surroundings, wary, cautious.... he sees nothing. satisfied at the empty surroundings, he pauses, tempted.... it had been what- four days since he had been able to sleep? he had gone longer than that before.... but it was so tempting.... inadvertently he leaned back, felt his eyelids begin to droop....  
  
*Awaken. Now*  
  
The sound was less a voice, more of an audible calamity, a cacophonous riot of mind tearing noise only he could hear.... a whisper so harsh it gripped him in fingers of mind numbing agony, even as he snapped awake, eyes wide and tentacles spread in sudden shock. Twisting instinctively to look for a figure he knew wasn't there, he gaped stupidly for a few moments, still grasping at the retreating shreds of his few precious moments sleep he had somehow managed to garner. cautious, his voice floated out in a light, low hiss." Is there.... a problem lord?" he winced as the soft words stabbed into his head once again, condescending and coldly, inevitably cruel.  
  
*A problem. A problem? Yes. Yes- indeed.*  
  
No more words were offered. The Executioner sighed. It didn't look like it was going to go easy.... Mustering up his ego, he suppressed it in determination and, in a gesture he hated with a passion, bowed his head.  
  
"Forgive me lord."  
  
The voice waited, agony even in silence. the agony was always there, usually in the form of a pounding headache that had plagued him for the 90 some odd years he had lived since his.... induction. Feeling a tremulous vein of alien amusement, he gritted his teeth.... it was not going to be a good night at all. He sighed again, disgusted with this old, enraging game. "Forgive me lord for taking a time that was not my own, for resting without your esteemed permission it was wrong you who give me so much I who am so little in your esteemed glory-"  
  
The voice hit with the force of a blow, the annoyed disgust and contempt beating harshly at his head.  
  
*you know of my opinions, sharing them all in your minuscule head. you owe me more than you could ever pay. do not seek to disappoint me again....* Grasping his aching head, he hissed out the words, snarling. "Yes my lord. All the world to you my lord. Power to the Possessor...."  
  
He could feel the sneer. the pain left, as much as it was going to, fading till it was barely that of the old, familiar stabbing headache once again.  
  
The light was out. Apparently burned out in the Odd's presence, the Executioner wasn't fooled. The alarms hadn't gone off. The light had been deliberate, to leave him in darkness, the temptation of sleep that much more of a torture for him. the odd and his games....  
  
sighing, he leaned back, the chair protesting beneath him in the darkness.... it was going to be a long night....  
  
---  
  
Stay in your Odd damned room.... Glowering in the darkness, the red, glowing eyes narrowed in hate. Bastard glukkon. he could snap the damn fool's minuscule neck with a gesture, tear the life-force from the body and julienne it before the ignorant idiot's dying eyes.... a warning tremble sent an ache through his temples and he quieted, brooding and sullen. not the time to get angry now. he just had to relax.... he might not be able to sleep, but he could rest.... he had been doing that so much recently....  
  
wait. HE couldn't replace the light.... but someone else....  
  
A smirk alighting on his features, he paused, his tentacles spreading in a grin. raising his head, he sucked in a deep breath, and suddenly barked forth in a shouting roar:  
  
"ROACH! GET IN HERE! NOW!!"  
  
one two three.... The door shook, the sound of hard impact marking the arrival of the summonee. it did not open, but shook another time. he could just imagine the other figure abusing the door in his inevitable, mindless frustration.... so delightful.  
  
Fully cheered up now, the Executioner leaned back, his tentacles caught in a grin as the door opened, swinging back hard and slamming brutally off the back wall. silhouetted in the ugly orange light, the figure of another slig stood, his powerful frame slumped and his every muscle tight and strained. heaving irately, the figure whipped around, fixing him with an eye slitted in the most smoldering of hate.  
  
"What. Do. You. Want. Now?" Hissing maliciously, the figure leaned towards him, shaking. He held his eyes, unflinching, and let his grin widen. The figure, almost swooning in rage, hissed out the word, barely discernible.  
  
"....sir?"  
  
"That's better.... I need your help for a bit...." his grin, he knew, must be infuriating. it was, he noted, as the figure seethed impotently, waiting for him to continue. "I need you to replace a light bulb for me."  
  
"....That's it??"  
  
"That's it...."  
  
As the figure lurched off, hissing obscenities, he leaned back, thoroughly enjoying himself. perhaps it wasn't going to be quite so bad a night after all.... 


	3. Things can be desceptive sometimes...

CHAPTER 3  
  
  
  
The small metal ball made a hard, ringing sound as it smashed into the wall. Rebounding violently, it bounced once, hard, across the floor, before thudding into the warm roughness of an open palm. Roach hissed as he shifted his shoulders against the wall, took aim, and hurtled the metal ball forcefully against the opposite wall once again. The ball repeated its clangorous performance, scuffing the oil soiled metal of the floor slightly in it's return flight. Weighing the ball broodingly, he huffed grouchily, his eyes narrowing as he turned back to his peculiar, soothing game. The technique was to throw it just so… to hit the wall just right, and with just so much force, to cause the ball to bounce back to its place of origin. Since metal wasn't much of a bouncing material, it had to be thrown hard… tensing up, he took aim once again, drawing back for another throw.  
  
Clangk- thunk, Clangk- thunk, Clangk-  
  
The weary looking mudokon down the hall winced in its cleaning, it's worn face flinching at the sharp rapport. Dragging the blackened scrub brush dejectedly across the soiled metal, it flinched repeatedly, looking frazzled. He could tell he was giving it a headache. Just for variety, he took aim and hurtled the ball violently at the wall, catching it without a bounce, and grumpily enjoying the loud, harsh sound and the mudokon's startled jump.  
  
The deep, ill tempered rumble came from well above head height, and would have even had he been standing, instead of curled up in a slump against the wall outside the room as he was now. Craning his neck slightly, he kneaded the reassuringly cold metal ball in his palm as he looked up and up at the jaded, tentacled visage of the Big Bro hovering in the corridor to his right.  
  
"Mrrgh man… Keep it down would ya? I've enough of a freakin migraine as it is…" The words were unfriendly, and the big brute didn't halt his lumbering until he had plunked himself heavily down beside the door, glaring through his mask at the smaller example of his race matching his distemperate stare glance for glance.  
  
Roach grunted in disgust. "So you were sent to babysit us were you?" His sneer was past grumpy, and well on the way to combative.  
  
The rumble turned warning, the massive slig almost spitting the words. "M'a Big Bro. We don't babysit anyone. I'm here as a regular guard. Just because the station happens to be here means I was sent to keep an eye on you."  
  
"Riiight. You just keep telling your ego that."  
  
"You grizzled old freak! I could smash your ugly head with two fingers-"  
  
Thoroughly enjoying himself, Roach tensed, another stinging reply coming to him… when the hand closed over the back of his neck, it fled from his mind, as he looked up into the irate, maskless face of the Executioner, the Big Bro drawing back slightly in startlement. Neither of them had seen the door open at all; it was as if he had just materialized in thin air… knowing his boss, he wondered if that wasn't the case.  
  
The executioners voice was soft, rather gentle; Roach winced. When he sounded nice, it was usually because he wasn't pleased at all…  
  
"Three hours into the assignment and you're already starting fights with the local troops? Now you know how that reflects upon me if you start a ruckus…" As the words flowed, the fingers firmly grasping the ridged back of his neck began to tighten, straining harder and harder. The pain shot along his spine, aching bones grinding against each other as the pressure steadily increased.  
  
Utterly ignoring the pain, Roach glared, his voice a seething hiss in his throat as he stared balefully at his boss. Shaking with rage, he struggled to suppress the pain, pushing himself to his feet. The Executioner largely ignored him, turning instead to the looming shape beside the doorway.  
  
"And you. Sent here to keep an eye on us?"  
  
"I was sent here to watch this corridor. The fact of you being here means nothing."  
  
"I dunno, seems rather demeaning to me… and rather pointless. A futile effort on their part, all things considering…"  
  
The Big Bro tensed at the words, an angry shudder rippling across his muscular body. "And what the hell do you mean by that??"  
  
The Executioner merely smiled, his grizzled face twisting into a grin. "Well… sending you of course. Rather impressive to look at and all that… but not exactly what I would call an effective guard."  
  
Seething, the towering figure shook with barely repressed rage. "WHAT?? I could snap both of your pathetic twiggy little spines with one hand each! I could crush you-" He halted, heavily affronted, at the soft, snickering sound of the Executioner's laughter.  
  
"Oh I quite don't think so my dear boy… you don't know at all a whit about what you're talking about… you have NO idea at all…"  
  
The Big Bro's fist tensed. Massive fingers grinding together, the tall form growled, the sound echoing from the walls. Looking nervous, the small shadowy shape of the mudokon slipped silently along a wall, not wanting to be around such a potentially lethal situation… shaken, it disappeared around a corner and was gone.  
  
"And what are you going to do? Punch me now?" Gently amused, the scarred, grizzled slig still shook silently with laughter. "Didn't it ever occur to your minuscule brain that there might be a reason for me not being afraid of you?" Leaning closer, he almost brushed the slig's massive arm. "You want to hit me? Go on ahead…" Pulling back, he opened his arms wide, the look on his face one of amused cruelty, harsh to look upon. "You hit me… then, providing I survive… heh… I hit you back. Fair trade neh?" The sligs matched glares, measuring each other. Roach just stood by the side, seething and rubbing the back of his neck.  
  
"Well? Aren't you going to hit me? Go ahead. Hit me… what are you waiting for? Hit me. HIT ME!!" Voice taunting, unbearable, the Executioner leaned forward, his voice mocking as he snarled in the Big Bro's downcast face. A look of twisted frustration warped the Big Bro's face. Snarl erupting into a roar, the Big Bro drew back, fist a massive block of meat and bone, tensed to iron hardness… With a roar, it swung.  
  
The breath exploded from Roach's lungs in a startled, agonized huff as the massive fist slammed into him, smashing brutally into his body. He felt bones snap as he was flung violently back. Skipping brutally along the corridor, he slid to an agonized halt, curling around the flaming agony of his broken ribs, their unnatural angles bare centimeters below his skin. Blood flowed from between his tentacles as he struggled, gasping raggedly and ineffectually at the air. His legs lay several feet to his right, behind him.  
  
The Executioner gave the Big Bro an appraising look, a slow smile taking his face. "Hmm. Perhaps your not as hopelessly stupid as I thought you were. Interesting…" Turning, he glanced down the corridor.  
  
"ROACH!"  
  
A warbling, gargled moan answered him.  
  
"I didn't teach you basic regeneration techniques for nothing you lazy son of a bitch. You call that hurt? That's a love tap compared to what I'm going to do to you if you don't get healed and on that assignment right away. YOU HEAR ME?? lousy good for nothing slacker…" Muttering, he turned, slipping into his room. The door hissed closed behind him, leaving nothing but the embarrassed cough of the Big Bro and the grating heaving gasps of the other figure down the hall. 


	4. Culture be damned

CHAPTER 4  
  
  
  
The wide, luminescent yellow eyes stared intently at the screen, the pursed, half smiling face bathed in the bright, pale light. Staring intently at the screen, the mudokon paused, wincing a little at the glare from the monitor as his hands slowed faintly in their blur over the keyboard, nails hovering over the keys as his gold eyes swept over the screen. Twisting slightly in the warm comfort of the swiveling chair, he paused, one hand over the screen… checking it one more time, he turned back, his face breaking out into a pure, childlike smile of joy. "Sir! Your stock just rose four points!"  
  
"What? Excellent… that's some good news… even in this hellish time." The figure didn't turn around. Face falling, the mudokon gazed worriedly at the figure, the slump of the shoulders; looking weary, almost… defeated. Placing a splay toed foot against the computer desk he was seated at, he tenses- gliding gracefully, he pushes off, wheeling smoothly across the featureless floor. The wheels grind slightly as he rolls to a stop, eyes on the hunched, slumping form of his master.  
  
The faint, watery blue glow of the glukkon's eyes don't leave the massive screen before him. Text and statistics flow across it, a small pointer shimmying this way and that across the screen. Resting stiffly on his elbows in the peculiar chair designed for him, he leans forward, the sound of heavy, pounding typing coming muffled from beneath the desk. Not many glukkons liked typing, but Mainard had always pledged a preference over dictation any day.  
  
Insides twisting with sorrow, the mudokon rises, the chair inching back under the pressure of his back stretched foot as he slips forward, his eyes never leaving the silhouette of his master's long, tired face. An ear flicked slowly… a nervous habit his master had picked up long ago…  
  
The long, tight form of the glukkon tenses, shaking slightly as the mudokon's hand finds his shoulder beneath the soft gray cloth. Caressing the shoulder of his suit slowly, he leans closer, his eyes wide and unhappy as he stares into his master's face. Voice tinged with loving concern, he stares deep into his masters warm, bluish eyes, and asks "Master… how long has it been since you last slept?"  
  
Coughing slightly, the glukkon flicked an ear. "Oh… recently enough." Turning his head away, he kept typing.  
  
The mudokon's voice was soft, concerned. "How long sir?"  
  
The glukkon merely continued typing, not looking at him, not meeting his gaze.  
  
The bluish green hand ran over his shoulder comfortingly. "How long?"  
  
Coughing once again in embarrassed gruffness, the answer comes out a mumbled garble. "Oh… a day or so… or two… Odds I don't know! Too long and not long enough…" Both handfeet slam onto the hidden keyboard, a splash of garbled words appearing across the screen as the glukkon shifted, turning to favor his pet with an exasperated, amused look.  
  
The mudokon shifted, contrite. "Sir, I-"  
  
"Wren. When we're alone, you can call me Mainard hear?"  
  
Smiling, the mudokon nodded slightly. "Okay…"  
  
Smiling quirkily, Mainard looked Wren over once, raising an eyebrow. "And what of you? of your sleep?"  
  
"Oh no sir… don't worry about me. I'm fine…"  
  
"Always the little martyr… so what's up."  
  
"Nothing much… the ever continuing stock battle between Prexicorp and Cyrux industries continues…"  
  
"Whose up?"  
  
"Cyrux."  
  
Mainard's face wrinkled up in disgust. "Damn, hope that bastitch had taken a hit… Odds I hate his products… unreliable and cheap as hell…"  
  
Wren nodded softly, looking his master over. "Sir can I get you an espresso?"  
  
Mainard paused thoughtfully. "No, no need…"  
  
Wren smiled. If his master wasn't dousing himself with caffeine and worse, it meant he might be considering going to sleep…  
  
"Anything else?"  
  
Recalling to the present, Wren shifted a little, uncomfortable. Voice even, he shook himself mentally, saying in a cool voice. "Well… we've taken samples from around the factory. Among the workers…"  
  
Knowing what was coming, Mainard sighed. "How high is the contamination levels…"  
  
"About 4 percent… that's well exceeding the limit sir."  
  
"I… see."  
  
Staring at his knees, Wren said calmly "I'll order a cleansing sir…"  
  
Wren lifted an eyebrow, looking at the screen. "Only those two and a half percent or higher… no need to lose the entire work force…"  
  
"Sir… that's still a good thirty or forty workers…" Eyes wide and staring into space, Wren paused in thought… and finally nodded. "I'll get right on it sir…"  
  
As Wren wheeled back to his desk, Mainard smiled slightly, his eyes glowing soft. "It never ceases to amaze me how calmly you can do that. They're your people."  
  
Wren didn't look up from his typing. "Everything dies sir… even me:"  
  
Mainard nodded. "Yes… even me."  
  
Wren froze, spinning around in his chair. "Oh no sir! Don't say such a thing! You'll outlive everyone in this factory three times over! Don't say things like that sir…" Looking positively miserable at the thought, Wren sagged in his chair, his eyes wide. Staring at his master pitifully, he shook a little. Mainard had to restrain a faint giggle at the sight as he gruffly swung around, his hands returning once more to the keys.  
  
Smiling quirkily, Mainard paused a little, his ears flattening at a thought. "What of our 'guests?'"  
  
Wren glanced at a screen briefly, idly running his eyes over the flashing pictures and flowing text. "Um… looks like… nothing happening sir. Whoops, looks like that assistant of his is outside talking to the guard…"  
  
"Arguing? Fighting?"  
  
"Nope… looks pretty calm right now." Twisting in his chair, Wren glances over at his master. "Sir? It isn't normal for a slig to have another slig as his assistant… why does he have one?"  
  
Mainard twisted up his features, staring at the screen in perplexed bewilderment. "How the heck should I know? Rumors fly thicker than petroleum with that freak…"  
  
Nodding soberly, Wren finished up with the command functions, his hands flying over the screen.  
  
"Anything else you can think of to tell me?"  
  
"…nope… looks pretty calm for once…"  
  
"Good."  
  
Wren looked up hopefully, scarcely hoping to believe…  
  
"I think it's time for me to go to bed…"  
  
"Oh YAY!"  
  
Mainard grunted in surprise as the hands clamped around his neck, Wren's feet off the floor and dangling as he grinned joyfully, pressing his cheek into the glukkon's shirt. Raising one eyebrow, Mainard tilted his head a little, looking down at the enthusiastic, childlike figure hanging from his neck. Flashing his master an embarrassed smile, Wren let go, slipping to the floor and wrapping one hand around Mainard's bent elbow.  
  
"Come on sir! Over here."  
  
Half dragging the amused glukkon behind him, Wren slipped towards the voluminous cushions of a couch, set against the wall. Forcibly swinging his amused master ahead of him with a grin across his face, Wren bent a little, easing the taller figure to the couch.  
  
A yawn took Mainard's jaw as he paused, one hand swiveling awkwardly to undo a few of the lower buttons on his suit. Wren helped, fingers fumbling with the clasps. Stretching out a little, the glukkon spread his arms, relishing in the loose feel and the soft cushions beneath his shoulders.  
  
"Good night Wren…"  
  
"Good night Master…"  
  
As Wren settled sleepily onto the floor in front of his master's couch, Mainard sighed softly, slowly relaxing for the first time in several long, worrisome days… as he curled onto his side, eyes closed and mouth cracked open, one long arm slipped out of his suit, dangling over the edge, one handfoot resting gently and comfortingly on the small, bony shoulder of his friend… 


	5. The wayward soldier

CHAPTER 5  
  
  
  
The Big Bro cast a chagrined look down the corridor, shifting uncomfortably as the sounds faded slightly, the wretched, wet moans stilling somewhat, dissolving into ragged breathing. The figure was slumped, back to the corridor, curled into a fetal ball, arms around his middle. Looking away, the large figure sighed, shaking his head slightly… sounds behind him, scuffling and shuffling sounds. The Big Bro winced. Sounded like he was going into convolutions… poor guy. Feeling wretched as he listened to the faint struggles, he spaced out, contemplating what had happened… and started, whipping around. The supposedly dying figure of the slig rose, pants dented heavily and a hand grasping his middle with strained, clutching fingers. The glare was fierce, but more of sore annoyance than vengeful wrath. Stepping forward, the Big Bro approached, eyes wide and eyebrows tilted in confusion.  
  
"…What… the hell… was THAT for? That little stunt cost me five ribs! Don't you know it isn't polite to puncture someone's lung with their own shattered bone fragments?? Jeez!" Throwing a hand into the air, Roach grumbled, his other hand still clutched tenderly to his abused, healing body.  
  
"Man you were dyin there…"  
  
Roach favored the bigger slig with a sour look. "And? Things aren't always what they seem… you remember that." Shaking his finger in the other, bigger sligs face a little, he wrinkles his tentacles slightly, his eyes sliding closed as he paused to lean against the wall, his breath still ragged. Groaning, he rose slightly, approached the bigger, taller slig and, tensing deliberately, throws one solid, hard punch as high as he could, into the big slig's lower ribcage and gut.  
  
"There! Now we're even! You'd better not frickin bring that up again, I don't wanna hear about it anymore!" Staring meaningfully into the taller slig's face, Roach grinned, half in joking camaraderie, half in ruffled annoyance. Putting up his massive hands in mock surrender, the Big Bro laughed. "hey hey… whatever you say man…"  
  
"Come on and sit down with me you big lug. Your giving me a neck crick." Tugging on one of the large arms, Roach eases himself against a wall, his legs venting a feeble mechanical protest as he bends, curling up against the soiled metal. The Big Bro bends obligingly, easing down between the four bending legs like a lounging spider. Looking up with sour amusement across his face, Roach twists, punching the Big Bro on the upper arm. The bigger slig grins.  
  
Roach clears his throat slightly, favoring his new companion an appraising look. "Okay. You're violent I'm violent everything's normal. No hard feelings?"  
  
The big slig grinned. "None."  
  
Roach, looking confused for a moment, looks the bigger slig over. "So why were you sent to guard us?"  
  
The Big Bro shrugs his massive shoulders. "Dun rightly know. The boss is a paranoid one… what with everything, everything, that's been happening lately, I'm not surprised… the boss don't know you, he don't trust you at all…"  
  
Casting an eye on the closed, silent door behind him, Roach nods soberly. "I can understand that." Giving the Big Bro a warning look, Roach growls. "And don't you be getting in a fight with that bastard either… he was right in saying you had no idea what you would be getting into…" Staring seethingly at the door for a moment, he shook his head, putting the thought of his master and nemesis out of his mind.  
  
"I see… he's a scary bastitch. Is everything people say about him true?"  
  
Roach smirked. "Oh Odd what rumors are flying now?"  
  
"Well… there's-"  
  
"Here. think about this. Of all the bad rumors that could be ricocheting around, most likely about sixty percent of them are true."  
  
The bigger slig merely blinked, leaning back against the wall with a low whistle.  
  
Without looking at him, Roach said calmly, leaning against the wall. "We haven't properly introduced ourselves yet, I believe introductions are in order…"  
  
"Oh yeah. M'names Randall… though everyone calls me Vandal."  
  
"Vandal?"  
  
Vandal grinned. "Bad habit of breakin vending machines and pinball games and all that good stuff…"  
  
"Aaah…" Roach leaned back, eyes briefly clouding over in thought. "It's been so long. So long…  
  
"Jaxxs… a long time ago… my name was Jaxxs…"  
  
Turning to him slowly, the Big Bro pauses, head to the side and smiling. "Hey, were you named after that lieutenant Jaxxs? The leader of that one squadron, Valor, Valor somethingorother."  
  
"Valor's pride… yeah. You could say that." Eyes far away, he smiled a little, leaning back against the wall. "You heard of m- him?"  
  
Vandal nodded. "Yeah, saw a special on him when I was in the BB treatment center, getting juiced. Kinda stuck in my mind. Though that was a long time ago…"  
  
"Long time since you saw it?"  
  
"Long time since he lived! Man that guy's like ancient history."  
  
Roach wrinkled up his tentacles a little, looking ornery. "Hey a hundred and fourteen years isn't ancient history …"  
  
The Big Bro favored him with an appraising, surprised stare. "Whoo sounds like you know a lot about him…"  
  
"You could say that."  
  
"Yeah. I heard all about him. Way back when… the slig's slig, all those sligs back then, fighting native mudokons with knives and ranging the land, exploring ancient ruins and all that junk… it always sounded so, well… fun. but then his squad and a bunch of the other squads disappeared and everything changed…"  
  
Staring off into space with an unidentifiable expression across his face, Roach merely sighed, very light, very low, and nodded. "Yes… everything changed… so much." Shaking himself out of wherever his mind had been brooding over, he pauses, glancing at the other slig. Who gave him an appraising stare.  
  
"Sixty percent of the rumors ehh?"  
  
"Sixty indeed, roughly…"  
  
"Yeah… like the one saying that both you guys are like… what, five hundred years old? Five hundred… or more like a hundred and fourteen maybe?" Leaning in closer, the bigger slig looked him over, eyes remarkably sharp.  
  
"You look just like the pictures… it's amazing. You look just like him… just like him." Scarcely daring to believe his own accusation, Vandal reached out… placing one finger under Roach's chin, he lifts his head, turning it slightly to the right, the left, looking him over. Roach allows it without comment, his eyes unreadable. "You're not named after some old, historical bad ass slig commander, are you? You're really him…"  
  
Gently removing his head from the other slig's grip, he gazes up into Vandal's eyes, his own gaze sooty, tired… "I look just like him, don't I? Just older. So much older…" Venting a long, tired breath, Roach rubs dispiritedly at his tentacles. "It is… true. I am him. Just older, impossibly older…"  
  
"H-how…"  
  
Silently, Roach jerked a thumb towards the door, towards the figure within. Face twisted in disgust, he snorts slightly, his tentacles wrinkling in a grimace of malevolent ire.  
  
"So… if your this great ancient slig commander, why don't you just ditch the bastitch? Play hooky or just slit his freakin throat?"  
  
A look of pain and terrible, burning frustration passed like a cloud across the ancient slig's face. His fist finds the floor, pounding ineffectually against the cold, unyielding, uncaring metal. "I was a good slig. I still am. I've faced down rampaging bull scrabs before, fought a cornered mudokon warrior to the death bare handed…" Although it was quite warm, the small figure hunched, his eyes glowing sullenly as a hard shiver took his form. "…but this is something else. Something I can't even begin to handle… I may be a slig commander, ancient and proud… but I'm still a normal slig. A mortal… I'm not… like him."  
  
The Big Bro was utterly silent, but the question rose up between them, unable to be spoken aloud. Roach turned towards him irritably, his voice scratchy and hoarse.  
  
"Yes. Why didn't I just kill myself. Do you know how many times I've asked myself that same question… but, I'll tell you. Exactly why. Why I'm still here, instead of sleeping peaceably in the ground, instead of buried under too many years to count. Because of him. because he reached into my body; reached in, and tore out my soul. I can't die. I just age, toughening, graying and aching as the years pass unmercifully by, pouring one over the other till the entire world becomes a painful blur… I can't die… unless I get it back. He told me flat out what would happen to me if I ever let myself die… how he would deliver my soul to his master as a present… make sure he got real creative with it."  
  
"He… has your soul?!"  
  
"Yep…" Rising to his feet, Roach places a hand on the massive shoulder, head height, and slips into the door behind him. Seconds pass. Emerging with a small, unremarkable, dingy backpack, he eases back down into a sitting position. And reaches in.  
  
The bottle was beautiful, strangely beautiful. Not quite glass, not quite stone, it was made of some unidentifiable substance, all milky and green and gray and clear, swirled together in chaotic, serene patterns. It looked vaguely like a soulstorm bottle, but bigger, blockier. Strange, disturbing creatures clung to the neck, holding on the lid. There weren't any visible separations between the lid and the body anywhere, just smooth, seamless 'glass'…  
  
"Please. Be VERY careful with this… you couldn't break it if you tried, but DON'T tip it. And don't-shake-it."  
  
Taking the bottle with apprehensive care, the Big Bro studies it, swiveling it around, but heeding the older slig's wishes. Running his large thumb against the smooth side, he pauses, and brings his fingernail to it's surface with a hard tap. He listens to the haunting ring. Roach groans.  
  
"You okay?"  
  
"I felt that…"  
  
"Oh. Sorry man." Looking back, he studies it. "It looks familiar somehow…"  
  
"S'old. Old… but same as I, it isn't what it always used to be. Started out, way, way back when, as an innocent bottle of alcohol. Old Janx Spirit… we used to take one, to celebrate after succeeding on a mission. It was employed for… other purposes."  
  
There was silence.  
  
"Wow… life sucks huh?"  
  
"Yyyyep."  
  
As the two figures lean back, staring at the ceiling, Vandal sighs softly, his tentacles spreading in a grin. "You're going to seriously have to start telling me some stories old man…"  
  
Grinning, Roach nods, secretly pleased for the first time in a long, long while… 


	6. A call of help answered

CHAPTER 6  
  
  
  
The whole compartment shook. Boxes, stacked loosely on the metallic floor, their towering, leaning forms barely lashed into place by the careless restraints of the baggage checkers tilted precariously, groaning with a disturbing tone and constantly threatening to collapse. Dust sifted down, clogging the already dank, stuffy air, the stink of petroleum almost rendering the air unbreathable.  
  
The compartment shook again, rattling disturbingly. Boxes began to shift, leaning into a turn, as a faint gee begins it's gentle, insistent tug.  
  
With a faint whimper, one of the huddled, hidden figures in the dark recess of the compartment began to slide, the soft scrape of mudokon toenails against the floor almost unheard over the detritus of random sounds. The shadowy figure slipped out of the pool of darkness he had been huddled in, slipping slowly but helplessly across the floor, his toes splayed and scraping at the slippery metal. Cursing softly, he caught ineffectually at the ropes on a boxes stack, slipped once again, and continued his slide. Slipping in and out of shadows, the helpless figure slid a few more inches, sliding…  
  
A form hit his chest, this one warm, organic and mudokon. Air whooshing from his lungs, his arms wrapped around it on reflex and he held on, clinging fiercely. As the gee began to ebb, his impromptu savior turned toward him, a glare in his dark, alien eyes. His voice came out a strained, almost silent hiss "Would you watch out what you're doing? We're trying not to get noticed here… get off me!" A hand struck him, not hard but rather callous. Testier than even his normal state, he turned, bristling towards his savior, antagonist and companion.  
  
A harsh repartee on his tongue, he opened his mouth-  
  
The voice was calm, and spoke directly into his mind. From the way his companion's head rose, he knew they were both being spoken to. It wasn't the Lady… that only left one voice he would be hearing…  
  
~Now is not a time for fighting… now is a time for waiting. And patience. Even you two may understand that. So calm… relax… and simply wait~ Sympathetic, the voice continued, pouring like a balm over their minds ~I know you are testy. You are both on edge. That is an understandable reaction… just calm down and enjoy the ride…~  
  
Staring upwards into the gloom, the two figures, huddled together, nodded contritely and peeled apart, shrugging slightly away from each other. Finally getting a grip on the floor, the first figure paused, leaning against a box and gently nursing his wrist. His claws dug into his skin slightly, beginning to scratch-  
  
"Charley. Don't do that."  
  
Looking up was a reflex. His blind eyes, clouded with murky cataracts, blinked stupidly in the gloom, opening wide as if they could still see. He turned unerringly to the speaker, though he needn't have even turned to gaze upon his subject. Seeing with a sight having nothing to do with eyes, he turned, regarding his companion. Having long learned to get along without his eyes, he let an inner light guide him, finding the souls of others casting forth an illumination more revealing than anything light could conceive of, much less show. His companions shone more than enough to illuminate this small space. Had he been alone however, he would have been helplessly blind once again…  
  
Mortified, Charley removed his hand from his wrist, disentangling his long, sharp nails from his skin. Or what was left of it. Ashamed, he wrapped his arms around his shaggy shoulders, the dry rustle of his affliction filling his ears. The clinging flakes and shreds of dead, white skin hung in tatters all over his body. The effect was almost pretty, in a gruesome sort of way, the dead and shredded skin hanging like disgusting, ruffled down. It overall made him look rickety, feathery and hideously ill. His 'hair' tassle hung in tatters, a grayed version of it's former glory, laid against his ruined, snowy white skin. He had been scratching more recently. Though he could barely feel some things sometimes, recently his skin, deep beneath the layer of tough dead flakes, itched with a maddening fire, a fire that sometimes left him weeping with frustrated madness on the floor. He had been shedding enough recently. He knew he shouldn't aggravate the already hopeless situation.  
  
He couldn't help remembering the treatment that had plunged him into his state of artificial leprosy; the overenthusiastic application of the torture serum. It was designed to heighten the sensitivity of the skin, rendering a single claw dragged down the chest an unbearable agony. A normal dose was about a tenth of a bottle, more than enough to work. At the end, fourteen bottles had been used up, for no other reason than to hear him scream. His skin had died, his nerves rotting from the inside out from the OD'd serum. So little he could touch now, so little he could feel…  
  
His Lady Senhsamelle never hesitated to tell him how ugly he was.  
  
Pulling out of his memories, he hung his head, the expression on his blind face contrite. His companion studied him, wanting to be satisfied of the truth. Seeing him honestly willing to avoid his self destructive habit, he nodded his head.  
  
"I'm sorry Dirk."  
  
His companion smiled. "It's okay. I know it itches…"  
  
Dirk, running a hand along his arm self consciously, dragged his fingertips through a slick of oil, his hand gently spreading the black liquid across his skin. Damp, black and oily, his skin was dark, dark as Charlie's was a corrupted white, lying beneath the layer of crude, black oil. It shone on his skin, a beautiful, soiled rippling prism of colors spreading across his flesh. Charley's eyes were a cloudy white, the swirling cataracts rendering him blind. Dirk's were dark. And haunting. Oil permeated him everywhere. It oozed from his skin, ran in his veins. It saturated every muscle and lay in every organ, between every organ, everywhere. Even in his eyes. His eyes were a jet black, shiny… only an eerie, disconcerting halo of pure white surrounded the pupil. As he ran a finger through the slick black liquid, it sang to him, in his mind, his Odd thanking him for the caress in his own, wordless way.  
  
The two avatars sat uncomfortably in the ugly surroundings. Turning as one, they gazed upwards in the faint gloom, to the faint, barely discernible form of their third companion and member of their team. The shadowy shape sat easily on a shelf in the uppermost boxes, quite unconcerned by the compartment's frequent lurches. It was kind of odd. Although one avatar looked half dead and the other soaked in toxin, both avatars were still living, still qualified as being alive. Their third member could never be mistaken for living, even in the most forgiving shadows. Light, he sat back on the boxes, comfortable. His legs were crossed, as were his arms, and a grin was spread across his face. His lips cracked, the mummified flesh broken in small, wrinkled lines, dust drifting down with every slight movement. Thin, brown and dried, the softly smiling, animated corpse sat easily, the ancient railroad tie that had been driven through his torso, right below his ribs which had originally held him pinned to the wall where he had died he had wedged securely between two boxes, holding himself in place with this rather gruesome, unorthodox method. He grinned, lips sifting sand again and checked his hands, readjusting the long, rusted nails piercing the palms. Checking the companion nails on his feet with his toes, he raised one hand, the nails long and sharp, having grown long after he was dead, and softly and purposefully pressed the twin hilts of the utility knives, jutting from his empty sockets. His eyelids hugged the metal that had robbed his dying sight, securing the blades where they has been thrust at the time of his murder. Having committed no crime but being at the wrong place at the wrong time, he had been murdered pointlessly, merely to keep the slave population of his factory in line. Having dried in the arid sun above the front entrance to his factory, he had been awakened when Charley had inadvertently summoned him with his sorrow. Now well and truly dead, he sat, swinging his brown, stick thin legs impishly. His hand caressed his neck, where his throat had been slit.  
  
Dirk shook a finger at him, the talon unnaturally long. "speaking of not scratching anything, you shouldn't mess with that. You'll tear your own head off."  
  
The laugher was within his mind. ~Rest well fellahs. We have a long road ahead of us. and then…~  
  
Dirk's eyes blazed. "Then… the destination." His eyes were far away, watching and listening to something only he could hear. His mouth moved slowly, his voice a breath. "Don't worry master… I'm coming. We'll save you master. You'll see. We'll murder that glukkon… and then you'll be free…"  
  
The other mudokon avatars smiled, leaning back for the long hours ahead, as the train roared on, thundering across the rough mountains of Oddworld, towards the isolated fortress/factory that was the Dark Seas Oil Refinery. 


	7. Rude awakenings

CHAPTER 7  
  
  
  
Wren snuggled closer with a soft, breathy murmur, his head beneath his master's neck. Mainard didn't know when Wren had snuck up to sleep with him. It didn't really matter, he didn't mind the company. The little muddy was warm and soft, curled up against him, face peaceful as a hatchling fresh to the world.  
  
Mai smiled. It had been a while… when Wren was just a tiny, wobbly little hatchling, Mainard had carried the mudokon with him, wherever he would go. It had earned him his share of odd stares, but he didn't care. Wren had even slept with him, curled in the crook of one of his massive arms. Things had changed gradually, but sometimes when Wren was stressed or unhappy….  
  
Mai smiled and curled an arm over the slight, bony body, letting himself drift off once more to sleep…  
  
The klaxons exploded. Mai's entire body jumped, his arms stiffening spasmodically in shock as he leapt awake, eyes wide. Wren eeped in startlement as he rolled, falling off the couch with a painful thump.  
  
"Sorry! Sorry." Hovering over his fallen friend for the briefest of seconds, he laid a worried, comforting hand over Wren's shoulder. The alarm sliced like a dagger into his brain. Rising, he hurried to the controls, clearing a low table and two chairs with a tight leap, skidding to a halt before the massive screen. One command and it flared to life, the larger than life mug of a panicked slig leaning into the camera, tapping at the glass-  
  
"Cut that out! Dammit what the HELL's happening out there! Well? Don't just stand there- Report!!" He felt a movement at his elbow, and small, gentle hands found his shoulder. Wren stared at the screen with worried eyes.  
  
The slig glanced along the corridor, his breath quick and shallow, panicky. "It's a Mox sir! Bout fifty yards down the corridor… and it's coming this way." The slig's eyes were wide with terror; tentacles shaking fitfully as it stared into the glass. "What do we do sir! It's smarter than normal, and fast… so fast…"  
  
Mai grunted, his ears flat against the back of his skull. A bad sign. "Why haven't you committed a burnout?"  
  
"We tried sir… we really did. Twice… it was too fast… it got out of the corridor before we could seal the entryways…"  
  
Grinding his teeth for a moment in thought, Mainard flicked a nervous ear. A Mox! Of all the miserable luck. It could have been an explosion, some busted machinery… but a freakin Mox!? The slig on the screen jumped miserably at a loud, clanging noise. It sounded tinny and disjointed in the speakers.  
  
Staring at the shaken slig, he lowered his voice, shifting into a reassuring drone. "Don't worry soldier. We'll bring that thing down. Just hang in there-"  
  
The slig's scream was remarkably piercing as it whipped around, eyes wide and blazing beneath the mask. It stared off down the corridor, frozen in utter terror at something off screen. Shaking hands wrenched the long barrel of his gun off the left side of the screen, and with a feral yell, began firing. The shells shot violently out of the rifle, striking the slig smartly in the chest. It didn't notice as it screamed, pumping bullets as fast and hard as it could. "Die, damn you, die." Breathing the words like a prayer, the slig continued firing, uncaring of the recoil smashing at its arms.  
  
Light blazing from the barrel's end, the slig mowed the corridor, his eyes flicking rapidly between one point and the other, following movement almost too fast to see-  
  
Suddenly, from off camera, a hand whipped out, claws open, and brutally swatted the gun from the slig's grip. A blur of black, it was nearly invisible. The gun cracked, falling away in two pieces as it struck the wall.  
  
The slig didn't have a chance. A black, skeletal hand, the only flesh hanging in small tatters to the oil darkened bone, whipped forward lightning quick, and clamped around the slig's throat. The slig drew back its foot, slamming it brutally forward, where the camera could not see. With a crack, the sound of breaking bone echoed in the speakers, tinny and off. The slig drew back for another strike. A hand caught under its jaw, tilting the head up. The slig screamed, trying uselessly to wrench free.  
  
Hands clamped the side of it's head, holding it immoble. Hands wrenched at the bony wrists.  
  
Wren hid his face in the gray fabric of Mainard's shoulder, shaking.  
  
The face flashed into view. Only for the briefest second. Tattered flesh hanging from the skull, the oil slicked shape ducked closer, the empty eye sockets glimmering with a deep inner light. It's hands griped the slig's head as it ducked between the tentacles, opening it's beaked mouth… its mouth clamped to the slig's, almost friendly. The slig stiffened, trying to pull away. The slig fought, pushing, choking, the crack of the exposed bones breaking sounding over and over again as the slig battered at the creature. The gruesome wings wrapped around it, hiding it from view…  
  
A bullet clipped the skull, cracking the bone. The head whipped back, wings opening and eyes glimmering, a long tube of oil darkened intestine hanging from the open jaw. Oil ran in long streamers…  
  
As the Mox fled down the corridor, the gunfire increased, another slig joining the throng. The sound of pursuit grew louder, the sligs flashing by on the screen.  
  
A choking, heaving sound could just be heard from below camera level, wretched moans, wet coughing…  
  
A slig pounded up. Looking down, it bent to one knee, calling something garbled and worried. After a moment, the slig rose. Shaking its head, it raised the gun. A quick bullet and it was off again. The corridor was silent.  
  
"Damn. Damn damn damn frakkin hell!!" Clicking into the security systems, Mainard flicked between screens, cursing, searching. Where was it? -There it was. A streak of black, it whipped down a corridor and was gone. Where was that?? Eyeing the screen, he read it off E-16. Too close, too close…  
  
"Commander!"  
  
Static. A heavy cough, blowing breath. "Sir!"  
  
"It's slipping towards D corridor- about E-13 at the moment- E-12…"  
  
"Right sir, we're on it. Seal the doors, we'll take care of the rest."  
  
His hand, at floor level, was already on the button. The doors began to slide closed. The figure raced. They weren't going to make it.  
  
Doors sealed with a hiss and a click. With a hard, ringing crack, the Mox slammed into the metal, full speed. Fluttering appendages, large gruesome wings made of twisted flesh and organs flapped helplessly as the figure rebounded, falling to the floor in a hideous jumble of awkwardly splayed bones and flapping, oil soaked flesh. It rose with a cry, turning to stare with empty, gleaming sockets towards the sligs pounding down the corridor-  
  
And it leapt. Straight up. Smashing through a section of the ceiling, it sent a grate crashing to the ground, disappearing into the dark opening above. The sligs arrived, cursing, to see the last of it disappear into the darkness above, the braided length of intestine that was the creatures tail whipping around and was gone.  
  
"Sir! It's gone into the ventilation-"  
  
"I know that commander, I'm watching as we speak. How far do the shafts go?"  
  
Snappish with tension, the slig snarled out. "I don't know sir! I'm a guard, not a freakin engineer!"  
  
"Fine fine I'll take care of that…"  
  
Hands flashing, Mainard sat down. Schematics flashed, a three dimensional map clicking into life and turning slowly… cursing, Mainard read the schematics with a sinking heart…  
  
"Sir…" Wren was suddenly beside him, his hand on his large, bony elbow. Mainard twisted a little, looking down. "Mainard remember?"  
  
"Mai…" Mainard winced at the nickname. "Why don't you call the slig guy… you know… the one you hired." Wren tilted his head. "Isn't this one of the things he's supposed to be taking care of?"  
  
Mainard stared for a long, long moment… his face breaking out in a smile, he bends, till he's head height, staring happily into Wren's wide, yellow eyes. "Sometimes… you amaze me. Come on, we have a call to make." 


	8. The real monster...?

CHAPTER 8  
  
  
  
The waiting ended with a jump when the intercom suddenly crackled to life, a very grumpy sounding voice on the other side snapping impatiently. "This is a bit early in the morning even for a glukkon you hear? This had BETTER be good…" Wren moved over, staring into the video fone… the two sligs milled, aggravated. "Open the door Wren." Wren nodded, obliging.  
  
The door hissed open, silhouetting the two figures in a bath of pale light. Gazing into the office, the Executioner shifted a little, moving forward to step into the office… and hesitated. Mainard looked at him oddly, one eyebrow arched. "A problem gentlesligs?"  
  
Stuffily, the Executioner pulls his foot back, cracking the ankle joint experimentally as he shakes his head, and calmly turns his eyes on the glukkon. Mainard can't help a fidgeting shuffle, his eyes avoiding those of the old, grizzled slig.  
  
"Sir. I must say. Interesting decor."  
  
Mainard looked around, confused. The decor? The office was different, true. Not being one to let things go to waste, Mainard had always been known to make good out of any situation. The office was no exception.  
  
Far, far in the beginning, before the factory had been built over the site, an ancient brooding temple had needed to be bulldozed to the ground, the massive statues of intricately carved stone dynamited, the walls torn down. And then there was the matter of the inner dome. Nobody knew what it was made out of. Just a strange, almost crystalline bluish stone, clear in places, hazy in others, with swirls of white and black interspersed here and there in the mist. It had completely sealed the main shaft, blocking it and imprisoning the untold millions of gallons of oil below…  
  
Mainard had saved every last scrap of stone, putting it to use. The hauntingly beautiful stone now lined every inch of the office's roomy interior. Though more organic than most glukkons preferred, the strange beauty of the uncanny stone pleased him… the Executioner coughed.  
  
"Yes well… isn't this interesting… and I suppose you have no idea your office is lined in Anchrist?"  
  
Mainard blinked a little, raising an eyebrow. "What the hell are you talking about?"  
  
"Ah, I see… I was right. And I suppose you intended just to invite me in, pretty as you please?" Spreading his hands, the Executioner indicated the area around him, a humoring look on his face. Sighing, he rubs his head, groaning a little in annoyance. "I suppose ignorance is forgivable here… but if it's all okay with you, we'll talk outside."  
  
---  
  
The small sligs lounge was quiet, empty. Almost no sounds filtered through the factory around them. Mainard shuffled, uncomfortable. "Why did you want to talk out here anyway?"  
  
"Well there is a small, simple fact. That most interesting of stones that you chose- you salvaged it didn't you?" Mainard nodded. "Ahh… there would most likely have been a temple of warning erected over the site, no doubt torn to the ground once you fellows got here…" Again, Mainard nodded. "Well anyway… Anchrist is a verrrrry interesting stone. It's not what you would or could call normal… made of, believe it or not, crystallized spooce, it's very rare, and, to the right people, very valuable. But unfortunately to people like me… it's a bit of a nuisance.  
  
"Really? How so?"  
  
"Well… considering I'm an employee of a VERY non typical boss… it would effect me the same as it would effect Him… just not quite as strongly, thankfully. You see… Odds-"  
  
Mainard's answer was automatic. "There are no such things as Odds. It is just a bunch of superstitious mumbo jumbo made up by heathen tribes from long ago."  
  
"Yeah you just keep telling yourself that. Well anyway… before I was so RUDELY interrupted… these Odds-" He stilled Mainard's protest. "These Odds don't do well around Anchrist. Indeed it really screws them over. I personally, have never seem so much Anchrist in my considerable life…" His laugh was amused, and terrible to hear. "They really must've wanted him to stay asleep."  
  
Wren's voice was soft, confused. "Him?"  
  
The Executioner paused, his bright, lamplike eyes going wide… he blinked. Turning slowly in his seat, he twists, turning to look at them, his face caught in a most incredulous expression. "Him?" -he chokes. Coughing and sputtering, he reels slightly, one hand across his tentacles, his eyes closing… it takes the two of them a moment to realize he was laughing.  
  
"Oh! Oh great Odds about us this is too much. Too MUCH! GHAH HA hahhh…"  
  
Mainard's eyes narrowed. "what's so funny?"  
  
"YOU!" The Executioner roars. "Living on the back of a sleeping Odd of death and destruction and you DON'T EVEN KNOW!!" shrieking with harsh laughter, the slig reels on his chair, one shaking, unsteady hand moving to the table to keep him from falling off his chair. The glukkon just stares, refusing to even mull over what he'd just heard. Wren stares, his face frighteningly pale.  
  
"Didn't it occur to you that there might be something a little off in that situation? Not to mention the big freakin temple that most likely used to stand on this site I'd estimate… people don't build things like that without a reason you know…" Snickering unkindly, the slig stared at them, his eyes narrowed in amused incredulity.  
  
Mai's voice is low; measured and slow, he speaks calmly, as if explaining something to one who is very young, or very simple. "Let's get this straight. There is no-such-thing as an Odd… Odds do not exist. They're just some superstition made up by mudokons a long, long time ago…"  
  
Face sympathetic, the executioner stares into the glukkon's eyes. "so wise… and yet such a child."  
  
Shrugging a little, the Executioner leans back in his seat, his eyes drifting away. He mutters a little, voice low. "so okay… you're obviously not ready for all that. Anyway… just forget it then. It'll do you a world of good." Leaning forward in a sudden gesture, the Executioner extends his index finger firmly, and smartly pokes his nail right between the glukkon's eyes. Mainard shifts, his mouth falling open a little in painful surprise… a long second passes, Mainard frozen in the slightly odd position, the Executioner tapping the fingers of his other hand on the table as he works. As he concentrates, he doesn't look up, merely saying in a light, low voice to the form of the mudokon sitting beside him. Wren's frozen, unable to move. Small whimpers rise from his throat.  
  
"Oh shut up it's not like I'm hurting him… just cleaning up a bit. You, on the other hand, I'll let remember. I forgot how glukkons react to information like that. Hard headed bastards… but for you… it's gonna be locked away. No sense in you blabbing early… it's such a fun surprise…" reaching out with his other hand in a slightly awkward position, the Executioner moves a hand to Wren's neck. Wren, seemingly unable to, doesn't move, though he seriously looks like he would wish to. Feeling almost gently against the back of the mudokon's neck, he fiddles a moment, nods, and digs his fingernails into the neck, right beneath the skull. Wren stiffens, eyes going wide. "There we go…"  
  
Pulling his hands away, the slig leans back, looking self satisfied and content. For a moment, Mainard merely stares into space, his eyes unfocused… with a snort, he seems almost to awaken, shaking his head and blinking… Wren rubs the back of his neck, looking confused. Looking faintly dazed, the glukkon gives his head another, slightly harder shake, asking in a muddled, confused voice. "Erm, what were we talking about again?"  
  
Leaning back in his seat, the Executioner drawls "About your problems…"  
  
"Oh yes. Well… here's the situation we have here. We've got a bit of a problem loose in the factory."  
  
"Indeed… what sort of a problem?"  
  
Wren and Mainard gaze at each other for the briefest of seconds. "A Mox."  
  
"A whatzit? Forgive me, but that's one bit of lingo I'm a bit unfamiliar with…"  
  
"Wren named them."  
  
Wren piped up. "yeah, named after a mock avat-" Mainard's glare was dangerous. Wren drooped.  
  
The slig mulled over the words. "A mock avatar…"  
  
Coughing determinedly, Mainard states slowly. "Mox's are nothing more than a phenomenon, easily explained. We'll find an explanation yet… just because no explanation is forthcoming, means that we're to jump to ridiculous conclusions…"  
  
The Executioner groaned. "I see this is going to be a fun conversation…" Shaking his head, he leans forward. His eyes take in the two at the table, his voice pitched low. "so, you've got a bit of a problem with this Mox character… and want me to do a bit of cleanup, is that it?"  
  
After a long pause, the glukkon eventually nods, the movement barely seeable.  
  
"…I see." For a second, the slig stares at the table, one long nail scratching at the base of a tentacle. With a nod, he rises. Wren and Mai blink, surprised by the sudden movement. "Well, no sense waiting… lets get a move on, shall we?" Not waiting, the Executioner moves out, stepping carefully around a downed stool, and, weaving in and out of tables, exits the empty lounge, slipping through the door. Rising quickly, the others follow.  
  
Tromping down the corridor, the slig strides powerfully, his gaze elsewhere as he walks. Mainard watches the area warily, his eyes sweeping the corridors. Wren follows almost on the glukkon's wrists, bare inches away, his skin pale.  
  
A corridor passes by. Another. Wandering the factory, the three walk and watch, waiting.  
  
As the Executioner slips round a corner, wandering down the other hall, he pauses, stilling his walk. Mainard, confused and wary, slips up behind him, careful. Expecting the shadowy form of the Mox, he pauses, confused, as he sees the object of the slig's attentions. Another slig, down the hall, apparently asleep. Why would the executioner be interested in another slig? Shrugging, he moves with him. As they got closer, Mainard finally recognizes the other slig; gray and scarred- the executioner's assistant. Grunting, the Executioner steps up beside him, his eyes narrow. "Lazy bastard. If I can't sleep, do you honestly think I'm gonna let YOU sleep?" Bending, he looks into the other slig's face. what was it he was called? Beetle or something. Roach, that was it.  
  
Mainard drew back in surprise when the Executioner, stepping back, suddenly tensed and, with a hard, snapping movement, drew his leg back and slammed it brutally forward, kicking the other slig hard in the chin. The metal mask rang hard, a long, off pealing note tearing the air.  
  
Roach awoke with a roaring cry, flying backwards and landing with a hard thump on his back. Struggling, he swung over, pushing up off the floor and rose, the lower half of his face aflame with pain and the rest aflame with anger. His eyes burned.  
  
Leaning in close, the Executioner moves up, right in front of him, breathing out in a low voice. "So go ahead and hit me. you want to…"  
  
Roach just stares, glaring hatefully into the other slig's face. his hand clenches, the knuckles white and bony, fingers tensed. A long moment passes. The Executioner just smiles. Whipping his head away, the slig moves up behind his master, next to a trembling Wren, glaring daggers into his smirking master's back.  
  
"Everybody ready? And off we go!" Voice cheery and light, the slig moves off, hauling his odd assemblage behind him.  
  
They wander for nearly an hour. Exploring tirelessly, the four figures walk corridor and room, relentlessly pouring over the factory.  
  
Handfeet trembling, Mainard pauses for breath, leaning against a soiled metal wall, his breath rasping and wheezy. Wren moves up beside his master, his hands gentle on his shoulders and his eyes worried. Although, for a glukkon, Mainard was considered to be in good shape, the love of anything remotely cigarette like had taken it's toll. Mainard's breathing was beyond labored by now…  
  
Wheezing, Mai lifted his head, his eyes blurry. "No… hzz… need to… cughh… stop now… just *hakk* because of… M-*cough*Me…" Looking back, the Executioner pauses, turning around, his back to the corridor. Gazing down the corridor at the group, he places hands on his hips, his eyes narrowing a little in humoring impatience. "Glukkons. Go figure… so how is he doing?"  
  
Wren looks up, towards the slig ahead of him. "Oh he'll be fine… he's just a bit-" Wren's eyes went wide, wider than normal, his face losing all color as he stared, shaking… the Executioner raises an eyebrow, confused. "What's up with you?" Wren raises an arm, one trembling finger extended, right at the slig- behind him…  
  
The weight struck his back like a sack of bricks, knocking him to the floor. His mechanical knees clanging as he hit, he stiffened, his hands clutching at the metal- he felt the beak close over the back of his neck, biting deep, biting powerfully, in a blow that would have killed a normal slig in a single hit. He felt his bones crack, the spiderweb of pain lancing along his vertebrae. Oil dripped in long streamers as the Mox rose, wings unfurling over his downed 'prey.'  
  
The Mox leapt off the sligs back, it's gleaming eyes focused on the tall, glowing eyed form before it…  
  
The Executioner was up in a blink. Bones crackling as they reset themselves, he wrenched his head a little to the side, neck stiff. His hand whipped out, too fast to see…  
  
The Mox jerked to a stop, thrown off it's skeletal feet by the abrupt stop. The long, braided length of intestine that was the creatures tail strained, pulling at the hands clamped firmly around it, the Executioner's eyes intent as he freed one hand, moving it further up the glistening length, and clamped down, pulling the creature backwards. The Mox hissed, a wet sound, oil dribbling in long streamers from it's gaping beak.  
  
The Mox sprang at him, jaws open, claws grasping, the wings spreading wide as it leapt at the odd, old slig. Stepping, back, the Executioner held on with one hand, the other raising, palm outward, before him.  
  
"Down boy!!" The titanic impact was deafening. The walls shook, thunder without sound. The Mox went down, wings fluttering, a wet keening sound issuing from the exposed tubing in it's throat. Still holding the now lax tail, the old slig stepped up, placing a foot firmly in the middle of the Mox's back, between the wings. Right on the beating heart. The Mox howled.  
  
"So this is a Mox ehh?" He pushed harder. The Mox writhed, jaws opened wide. Oil ran from the gaping jaws. Bleeding off the wings, it beaded on the exposed flesh, flying off with every struggling, shaking flap. Where normally Mox oil burned like acid, it just rolled off the Executioner, not even leaving a smear.  
  
"Not much to the little bastitch is there?" Bending, the slig placed a hand around the heart, digging his fingers around the connective tissues, the muscles and flesh of the wings, where it bonded to the body. The Mox whipped around, ineffective, keening in agony. The Executioner continued his musing speech.  
  
"Not a whole lot to them… avatars they are not… you must understand. Although you could call them more of a spot avatar. Made for a purpose, rather sloppily, in a hurry. No craftsligship. Effective I suppose. You burn them normally?"  
  
Eyes wide, Mainard shifts, taking a long moment to realize he had been asked a question. He nods, mutely.  
  
"Now you -see-" the last word is punctuated by the slig's shifting arm movement. Oil runs like blood as he suddenly thrusts his fingers down, and in. burying them around the heart, he digs in, the skeletal form thrashing in agony. "There are other ways to deal with this… namely, the simplest, most effective one."  
  
The slig's grin is frightening. Truly frightening. Harsh and mocking, the slig looks down at the demonic little form struggling under him. his eyes blaze cruelly. Muscles tense. With a titanic heave, the Executioner straightens, his muscles bulging as he tears the straining, flapping wings from the Mox's thrashing body. Tubes stretch, popping, oil spraying everywhere. The three move back, entranced, horrified. The Mox stiffens, holding the position for a moment, it's fleshless expression frozen in a look of pure agony. Then the eyes go out. Winking out, the skull suddenly tips forward, the jaw shuddering. And falls off, clattering to the floor. Falling in a cascading wave of blackened bones, the Mox's body dissolves onto the floor, the bones hissing as they begin to melt, a stain of oil spreading in a pool on the floor.  
  
Holding up the wings, the Executioner favors them for a brief moment with a strange, calculating look. Turning to his assistant, he pauses. Whipping the wings like a cloak over his shoulders, the ragged flesh bleeding oil like blood. He grins. "What do you think. Is it me?" Laughing, he drops the wings, turning on his heel and moving off down the corridor. His voice floats back to the stunned group. "I'll be in my room. I'll just add that to the bill and be done with it. See you in the morning…  
  
Roach shakes his head, moving off after his master.  
  
Wren whimpers, pressing himself to Mainard's back. Mainard can't help but agree with him… 


End file.
